


Of Broccoli and Roses (And Other Domestic Pursuits)

by megzseattle, Zeckarin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megzseattle/pseuds/megzseattle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeckarin/pseuds/Zeckarin
Summary: Our overly-accommodating heroes, each hamstrung by a complete lack of ability to communicate their feelings, hem and haw around the edges of their mutual attraction in the days after the failed apocalypse, and end up making a move that neither of them is quite prepared for. As you might surmise, things go a bit pear-shaped. Lucky they have an ace or two up their sleeves.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 111
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for part of @go-events POV event, where teams of writers were paired up to write a single, themed story, with each writer taking on one or two main characters. We were chosen to write about the South Downs cottage, and couldn’t resist the chance to try something we’d long talked about – turning the cottage trope a bit on its head, by making it not quite the long, romantic, happily-ever-after the boys (and everyone reading fanfic) have always longed for. In this story, Aziraphale’s words, thoughts, and actions, are written by Zeckarin, and Crowley’s parts are written by Megzseattle. We hope you’ll enjoy our first efforts at cowriting! We certainly did!

Aziraphale put down his book and walked to the window. He could hear the cheery trill of the birds outside. So much _better_ than the rumbling of cars on the street. And the view… oh, the view was _heavenly_.

Scratch that. Not heavenly. Not at all. It was _gorgeous_ , that’s what it was. Yes, gorgeous, all greens and blues, wooden fences, and bucolic little footpaths… A breath of fresh air, on every level, after so many centuries in an overcrowded, noisy city.

With a sigh, he walked to the kitchen. That was another improvement, this wide, sunny kitchen, with all its modern equipment. With great care, he filled the kettle and pressed a button at random with a silent prayer. The blue light turned on.

The angel smiled victoriously. Who had said he couldn’t live within his time? He was obviously handling technology like a true master. Now if only he could get the hang of that induction hob, everything would be just _perfect._

For the third time this hour, his hand shot to his neck of its own volition, touching his bare throat. He pressed his lips in a firm line, forcing his fingers back on the counter.

This was the countryside. Bow ties were way too formal for the South Downs. He was free, now, and should relax, let his hair down, as they said.

It was perfectly normal to feel a little uncomfortable after a change. It would pass.

He was fairly certain he wouldn’t feel naked anymore in a few more weeks. And everything would be just _peachy_.

\--

Crowley woke up not in the bed he’d clambered into somewhere around one in the morning, but firmly attached to the wall. He cracked an eye open in the sunlight and confirmed that he was not, in fact, in London. The ugly, chintz-patterned wallpaper clinched it. He slowly peeled himself off and flopped back down onto the bed. He hated chintz. He made a mental note to replace it as soon as possible.

They’d been in the cottage for three weeks now and he’d yet to awaken where he’d placed himself for sleep a single time. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was probably nothing good. He only tended to stay where he’d placed himself when he felt safe and comfortable. It wasn’t safety -- he certainly wasn’t unsafe here, buried deep in the South Downs where the nearest living creature was probably a sheep. That left comfortable. He wasn’t comfortable here yet. 

It would come, he told himself. Just give it time. 

He got up and threw on some clothing without really thinking about it -- no one really to impress out here with his leather pants and slinky shirts, so instead he threw on what he’d come to think of as his gardening clothes. Denim (still tight). Button down shirt (still slinky). With a quick glance in the mirror to ensure he looked good (he still had standards, after all), he headed out to bully the espresso machine into producing something worth drinking. 

\--

It had been a couple of weeks since the failed apocalypse, and life was slowly returning to normal. Well perhaps not normal, since normal for them both had always involved overbearing superiors, ridiculous amounts of paperwork, and constantly watching over one’s shoulders to see who might be observing. Not to mention constant, low grade anxiety about the possible end of the world. 

Instead, now, they had time. Time to themselves. Time to think. Time to overthink, perhaps. Which, for an angel and a demon who had made a career of subtly miscommunicating at every turn, could be something of a problem. 

By mutual, unspoken agreement, they’d decided to make their visits to the Ritz a weekly event; Friday lunches were now a set date, at least three hours long, and involving an obscene amount of alcohol. When you came that close to dying, after all, you learned to hold on more tightly to the things you enjoyed. 

On the second such Friday, Crowley carefully poured them each a coupe full of champagne and tried to work up the nerve to bring up something he’d been carefully avoiding all week. 

“So, you know,” he began, trying to hide how closely he was watching Aziraphale’s face, “we’re on our own side now...” 

Aziraphale fidgeted nervously with his spoon. “Yes, so you’ve said… quite frequently.” He shot his friend an apologetic look. “You were right, of course. I feel awfully ashamed not to have realized it sooner.”

Crowley frowned. “Ngk - I’m not -- I’m not trying to make you feel _ashamed_ , angel! We’re -- we’re celebrating here, right?” 

He raised his champagne glass expectantly, eyebrows raised.

Aziraphale raised his glass and clinked it, and made a quick adjustment mentally to avoid further ruining the mood. “Of course, my dear! It is an anniversary of a sort, after all. Two weeks since the world didn’t end!”

Crowley cracked a more genuine smile. “Two weeks of nothing to do,” he said. “Two weeks of no bosses.” 

He was aware he was being somewhat disingenuous here. Yes, there had been pleasures in the last two weeks. There had been terrors too. He did not enumerate them, but they were fresh in his mind -- two weeks of never-ending nightmares about the bookshop burning down, two weeks of imagining what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped time at the exact right moment, two weeks of daydreaming about murdering Gabriel. He suspected Aziraphale was suffering from his own torments.

Aziraphale tried not to grimace. Doing nothing was not agreeing with him. Apparently, Crowley was enjoying his retirement already. But the demon always had been much braver than he ever was. Now was the time to follow his example. They were on their own side, and Aziraphale couldn’t hesitate anymore, couldn’t talk about his fears and the blinding terror he felt every time the demon walked out of his sight. 

“No bosses!” he answered firmly, thinking of Hell’s trial and Beelzebub’s bored face as they had sentenced his friend to death. No bosses was _good_ , he decided. And he should be more like Crowley, stop thinking about what could have gone wrong. About those few seconds as he’d watched the Bentley pull off, certain the demon was on his way to the stars and would never come back.

Crowley took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they said. “So,” he began, feeling brave. “I’ve been thinking. We’ve been through a lot. Maybe we should think about... making some changes?” 

Aziraphale spluttered, choking on his wine. _Change_? Change wasn’t good, change was absolutely _not_ tickety boo! What _kind_ of change? They had been living in each other’s pockets for fourteen blissful days. At least, blissful to him. He had thought the feeling was mutual. Had he been wrong? 

“Making some… some changes?” he answered in a high-pitched voice, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Why, yes, of course. Excellent idea. I was thinking just the same!”

Crowley picked up on the nervousness in Aziraphale’s voice and didn’t know what to make of it. 

“Well, you know,” he said, trying to sound casual, “we’re practically spending all of our time together already. Hasn’t been awful, you know, having you around all of the time.” He scratched his neck uncomfortably -- was his collar getting tighter by the moment? “I was thinking - maybe we should look into -- you know -- moving. So, we can -- you know, keep an eye on each other’s backs. Just to make it more efficient.”

He stopped, feeling like that had gone far afield from what he intended. 

The angel stared at his friend for a few seconds, relieved. So, Crowley still _wanted_ to spend time with him. Good. Wanted to move out of town, but not alone, that was the important thing. Was he feeling nervous because he was afraid Aziraphale wouldn’t want to leave the city to follow him? Silly demon. There wasn’t a choice to make. If Crowley wanted to move, then Aziraphale would leave his beloved bookshop in a heartbeat.

“Getting out of London? What a wonderful idea, Crowley!” Aziraphale chirped. “Do you have a location in mind already? I imagine you would want a garden, obviously. I did like our little outing in the countryside, apart from hitting velocipedes and scratching the paint on the Bentley, of course.”

Crowley blinked. What the -- what? This wasn’t what he had meant at all! Not in the least little bit. But, he thought, Aziraphale looked relieved. Almost happy, even. Had the angel been wanting to leave London for a while? 

He did a quick mental pivot and got with the program. 

“Well, we _have_ been in London a long time,” he drawled, casual and cool. He cast around quickly for some options. “Lots of good places out there -- Tadfield? Probably not. Isle of Man? Good whiskey! Lots of sheep, though. Or maybe - where was that place we went a couple years back when we were with the Dowlings? The south coast, I think... s’ nice. Fresh sea air. Good for both of us.” 

Aziraphale conjured his Enthusiastic Smile, the one he always saved for his yearly reviews with Gabriel. Crowley couldn’t spot it, he reminded himself. He’d never used it in his friend’s presence before. 

“Yes! The south coast is _perfect_! And I love the sea so very much!”

Oh, but he did not. He hated salty air, always so terrible for his hair. And the wind! Coastal winds always made reading outside impossible. The angel tried to find something positive to say about the _seaside_.

“We could… stroll on the beach, and… and watch the sunset!”

Actually, watching the sunset was pretty romantic. He could certainly look forward to _that_.

Crowley drained his glass quickly and poured more. “Well,” he said, “I will make some calls!” 

\--

They asked for the check not long after, neither of them quite sure what else to say, and Crowley drove the angel home as he always did -- much too fast, and with the soundtrack of Queen blaring in the background. He stood and opened Aziraphale’s door for him and for once, declined to follow him into the bookstore. Things to do, you understand. He watched and waved and smiled and then -- as soon as the door to the shop was closed -- hopped back into the car and banged his head on the steering wheel.

 _Idiot_ , he thought. _Bloody idiot._ Only he could take what was supposed to be a moment of professing his love and suggesting they both move into his flat -- or into the bookshop even -- and turn it into an unexpected decision to go be roommates somewhere in the salt flats of the God-forsaken South Downs. How on earth did they even get to that topic? 

Still, he thought, even if they ended up in a freaking cottage, it was a step in the right direction. And maybe with fewer distractions, they could sort out this whole attraction thing they kept dancing around. And most importantly, he thought, the angel wanted it. 

Consider it a done deal. 

\--

Aziraphale sighed heavily, leaning back against the door. What an absolute fool! The South Downs? Why? How did they end up making such a drastic decision? Moving out of London? But he _loved_ London! It was his home! His refuge! And leaving his _bookshop_?

He looked around with wide eyes and tried to stop tears from gathering. He would NOT be upset over Crowley wanting to live with him. It was NOT bad news. It was great. Absolutely perfect, in fact. How many times in the last days had he imagined it? Yes, he had thought about living together in the bookshop, or, if his friend had _really wanted it,_ his awful apartment in Mayfair. But the countryside?

There were _seagulls_ near the sea! Why, oh, why did Crowley have to love gardening so much?

With a frown, the angel nodded firmly. He could do it. For Crowley, he could leave the bookshop. He could leave London. And they would be very happy. Yes, everything would be… just perfect. He could _change_. He wasn’t as stuck in his habits as everyone seemed to think. 

\--

Aziraphale wasn’t very surprised when the door to the bookshop opened the following morning, letting in a very energetic, quite nervous Crowley.

Since Armageddon, it has almost been a daily occurrence. He was starting to worry a little, to be honest. The demon wasn’t usually an early riser and seeing him up and about before noon was unsettling. Maybe this moving away idea would be good for him. Crowley needed to relax and catch up on his rest. He certainly deserved it.

“Hello, my dear. How was your night?”

Crowley smiled in a way that looked oddly tense. “S’ok, angel. Did some research. There are a few places we might want to look at.” He fiddled with his phone and held it out to Aziraphale expectantly. 

Blinking in confusion, the angel focused on the device in his friend’s hand. Houses. No, not houses, he realized in distress. _Cottages_. Oh. _Already_? He looked up and met Crowley’s hopeful expression. How could he disappoint him? 

“Oh my, they’re all quite nifty, my dear,” he said pleasantly. “I really like them!”

Crowley’s face fell. Only a little, but enough to alarm the angel. 

His poor demon must have spent his whole night looking for the perfect place, and he couldn’t bother himself to pretend to see a difference between them. (There wasn’t. They were all the same.) “Could you show them to me once more, if it isn’t too much of a bother?”

Slowly, Crowley scrolled through the pictures. Focusing on the demon’s fingers with all his might, Aziraphale noticed the way they slowed their motion on the third cottage’s description. Big garden. It had to be the demon’s favorite.

“This one seems awfully nice!” he exclaimed with all the fake enthusiasm he could muster.

“Well,” the demon said, “hop in the car! We’ve got an appointment with an agent in an hour to go see a few.” 

And just like that, within a week, they were the proud owner of a mostly furnished cottage on the South Downs. A month later, having closed the Mayfair flat and put the bookshop on indefinite hiatus, they had moved in. 

It was just like neither of them had ever dreamed. 


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley sat back on his heels in the blistering midday sun and pulled the broad-brimmed hat he was wearing down to offer a bit of shade to his face. The rose bushes he’d been working on looked back at him mockingly, enjoying each and every little blood spot on his hands and arms where they’d managed to dig a thorn in.

He loved gardening. He did. But he bloody hated roses, and they hated him. And truth be told, Crowley was finding that indoor gardening was more his thing. Gardening outdoors in the hot sun mostly made him want to find a nice flat rock and curl up for a nap. And outdoor plants were simply too independent for him. They were nowhere near as easily cowed as the plants in his Mayfair flat -- something about being connected to the earth rather than constrained to a pot just made them unimpressed with his threats. Sure, he could bully the annuals -- the stupid little zinnias and petunias didn’t know any better -- but the perennials? They were a lost cause. 

He stood up for a moment and looked back towards the cottage. Through the window he could see Aziraphale’s face as he puttered around the kitchen. Making something for their midday meal, no doubt. The angel looked happy and right at home, and for a moment as Crowley watched he forgot about the wretched plants he was supposed to wrangle into submission. 

Happy angel was a good thing. Always. One of the very best things.

He turned back to the garden with a sigh and set about trying to prune the biggest and meanest of the rose bushes one more time. Some things just had to be done, like it or not. 

\--

Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and glared at the kitchen counter. How did he achieve such a massacre? He was aiming for something simple. Bread. What could go wrong with _bread_?

Apparently, an awful lot. There was flour everywhere, and scrambled eggs on the floor. He hadn’t intended to make scrambled eggs. There weren’t even eggs in the recipe, but here they were. He was nowhere near obtaining a satisfying dough, and that was fine. 

Absolutely _fine_. 

He glanced anxiously through the window. Was Crowley watching?

Thankfully, the demon seemed too enthralled with his gardening to think of spying on him. Aziraphale followed his friend’s movements for a minute. Crowley seemed so _pleased_ with the garden, it was difficult not to watch. The countryside really agreed with Crowley. Never before had Aziraphale seen him so… peaceful. 

With a last glance at the devastated kitchen, he sighed in defeat and snapped his fingers. He didn’t like it, it was like cheating, really, but he felt exhausted already and didn’t have the heart to tidy up the human way.

Maybe he could start with something simple. Something that didn’t need an oven, for a start. Despite himself, his eyes turned to the window again. Crowley had been working outside for so long… of course, his demon loved the sun. (No, not _his,_ he reminded himself. Crowley wasn’t _his_ demon).

But snake blood or not, working outside on such a sunny day required a refreshment. And bringing something cool out to his poor worker was the least Aziraphale could do. 

Oh, bugger. _His_ again. He had to stop thinking that way!

Lemonade. Nothing could go wrong with a simple lemonade. They had lemons, he’d bought them himself, and there was water aplenty. Sugar. He was supposed to add sugar, right? 

Five minutes later, a very satisfied angel exited the house, a large glass in hand, feeling rather accomplished. Lemonade was a simple thing to make, but making it both too acidic and too sugary was a true feat.

\--

“Hello, my dear! How is the cutting going?”

Crowley sat up and wiped a sleeve across his face. “Pruning, angel. It’s called pruning. And rose bushes are bastards,” he said. “What’s that you have there?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “I do love prunes,” he sighed, before blinking and handing the glass over with a happy smile. “I made you some lemonade. You are working so hard, I thought you deserved a treat!”

“Thanks, angel!” Crowley threw down his pruning shears and reached for the glass, then took a long sip. He schooled his face carefully to look pleased, even though he was fairly sure the angel had added an entire bag of sugar to it. “Mmmm, s’good! Very... sweet.” 

Crowley stretched and scratched vaguely at the many nicks and cuts on his forearms.

Aziraphale watched with bated breath and smiled blindingly at his friend’s compliment. “Oh, thank you! It is the first time I’ve made lemonade. I will have to write down the recipe...” The end of his sentence died down as he noticed the demon’s bleeding arms. “Dear Lord, Crowley, what happened to you?”

Without a thought, he snatched his friend’s right hand and erased the scratches with a delicate touch, before suddenly realizing what he was doing. He blushed furiously, then let go of the hand and motioned for the other, hoping (praying) to appear perfectly comfortable.

Crowley stared at the angel as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns. Aziraphale had held his hand, and was now expectantly waiting for him to offer the other one up, as if it were no big deal. He realized his mouth was gaping open and he shut it decisively, swallowing hard, and then tried to reboot his brain stem enough to coordinate handing the other arm over. 

“S’just the roses, angel,” he said. “Thorns. You know. All part of the job.” 

He ignored the way his left hand shook just the tiniest bit as he placed it into Aziraphale’s waiting palm. 

Aziraphale thanked Gabriel for all the training he had at hiding his nerves. He took the offered hand and healed it like it was the easiest thing in the world, all the while trying and failing to ignore a chorus of voices in his head, yelling “I’M TOUCHING HIS HAND! How can it be so SOFT?”

He let go and offered a happy, if tense, smile, and hastily retrieved the half full glass.

Crowley took his hand back and stared at it dumbly, as if he’d never seen it before. 

“Ngk,” he offered intelligently.

“Jolly good. Well… I… I’ll leave you to it, then! Do put on some gloves, dear, these naughty roses seem dangerous.”

The angel opened his mouth to add something. At this point, anything would have been welcome. But Crowley was looking at him expectantly, and Aziraphale had no idea of what to say, so with a last strangled sound, he retreated to the kitchen like all the hellhounds were after him.

\--

Crowley gave up shortly thereafter, unable to even pretend to concentrate on the roses again. He left his gloves and equipment in the shed and wandered back into the house, where luckily Aziraphale seemed to be immured in a thick cookbook and headed up to shower. He needed to remove the grime and to get his mind off what had just happened. A nice cool shower would be exactly the right thing. He intended to spend at least forty-five minutes in there, plumbing be damned.

His confidence restored somewhat by the lemonade, Aziraphale dug out the cookbook he had selected when moving in. He needed a hobby. Retired humans had hobbies, and he loved food, so cooking seemed like the natural choice.

He hadn’t thought that cooking would be so difficult, though. With a little nod, he selected one of the easiest recipes. Beginners. Anyone could achieve a beginner’s meal. And he did love quiches. As for the oven, he would miracle it for today.

What could go wrong?

Forty-five minutes later, the angel looked in desolation at his… this couldn’t be called a quiche. Charcoal would be more appropriate. He couldn’t put this thing on the table!

Wringing his hands in despair, he looked around. He had put so much effort into this meal! The first one he would have made himself! And he’d used the good napkins, the one with the lace edging, and there were roses in a vase, and his quiche was ruined, and Crowley would be so disappointed! 

He froze as he heard the water turn off in the ancient pipes. Crowley was nearly finished. No. No way, he couldn’t let Crowley see his failure. Frowning angrily, the angel snapped his fingers, and a perfectly cooked quiche appeared on the table.

\--

Crowley peeled himself out of the shower and stretched luxuriously. How much time had gone by? An hour? Two? He knew one thing -- he was feeling much better. He wrapped a large towel around himself and dried his hair with a snap of his fingers, then headed back to the bedroom. 

The ridiculously large bed dominated the room, and he took a moment to stare at it resentfully. How had they ended up in a cottage with just one bed, and _still_ ended up sleeping in separate rooms? He’d thought that perhaps this would be the thing that finally pushed them together, but no. Not with the world’s most proper angel around. 

Aziraphale had taken one look at the room, blushed deeply, and then murmured something about how of course Crowley could have the bedroom because he was the one who slept, after all. Aziraphale simply took the study across the hall as his, installing a large and comfortable couch that he could use for a nap as needed, and left Crowley to rattle around in a queen size bed all by his lonesome. 

Frustrated yet again, Crowley threw on the first clothes that came to hand and headed out to the stairs. 

He stopped, surprised, when a new scent reached him. It smelled like dinner! And to his surprise, it smelled really good. His stomach growled appreciatively as he headed down. 

\--

Aziraphale plastered a smile on his face as the demon entered the room, quickly hiding his dejection. The table looked good, at least, and he’d even lit a candle. In retrospect, he was starting to wonder if a bouquet AND a candle wasn’t a smidge too much for what was supposed to be a simple meal between two friends living together and not an official date.

Crowley let out a low whistle. “This looks amazing, angel!” he said. “And you know, I think I’m actually hungry. What’d you make, pie?” 

The angel’s smile wavered a little, before shining anew, a little too bright. “Actually, I… I made a quiche. It is quite a simple meal. I do hope it will be to your taste.”

Crowley pulled out a chair and sat down. He noted the absence of a bottle and snapped his fingers to pull one out of the ether. “Should go well with a Riesling, no?” he said with what he thought of as a debonair smile. He popped the cork and poured them each a glass, then leaned in to serve himself a huge piece of the quiche. 

He took an initial sip of the Riesling to make sure it was to his satisfaction, then stuffed an enormous forkful of egg concoction into his mouth. 

“S’delicious,” he mumbled around it, speaking with his mouth full in a way he knew drove the angel crazy. He was, after all, still a demon. Even if he was a sap.

Aziraphale sighed inwardly. Normally, he’d grit his teeth watching the demon serve himself, but he refused to allow that reaction, focusing instead on unfolding his napkin primly on his lap. Then Crowley spoke with his mouth full, something he had never, ever done in all the years they’d known each other, and he jumped to his feet and slammed his hand on the table in a combination of frustration and anger.

“What in the name of the Almighty do you think you’re _doing,_ Crowley?”

Crowley blinked and put his fork back down in an elaborate show. “Oh, I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” he said, folding his hands politely on the tablecloth. “Did you want to say grace first?” 

This was exactly the sort of thing the demon would say to tease him, Aziraphale knew it. And teasing each other was normal. It was fun, even. Except… this was their first successfully prepared meal in their new kitchen, and Aziraphale had cooked it! Well, not really, but Crowley didn’t know that. And acting like this with his first meal ever was mean, that’s what it was!

“I have half a mind to do exactly that!” he retorted angrily. “You are behaving like a barbarian!”

Crowley unclasped his hands and peered at the angel over the rim of his dark glasses. “Oh now,” he said, soothingly. “You know I’m only teasing. Don’t be that way, angel. Look at this amazing feast you’ve made us for our first home-cooked meal. And with so little mess in the kitchen too! I mean, what did you clean everything up right away? I don’t even see a pan.” 

He gave the angel an enigmatic smile and took another, much more well-mannered bite.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. _He knows!_ Why couldn’t he make friends with a less cunning demon?

“Are you implying that I didn’t cook this, _my dear_?” he asked in a snippy tone.

Crowley had the presence of mind to look shocked. “No, not at all!” he said. “I was just wondering where you got the ham. And, is that roast garlic? It’s really good! Usually doesn’t ripen for another month. You’re so resourceful!”

Hands on the table, still towering over his friend, Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it with a huge sigh and sat back down, picking up his glass to swallow its contents down in one go.

“All right. Fair enough,” he mumbled, looking away with a pout. “I miracled the food. But I did cook. Not that there is anything to be proud of. It was awful, so I panicked.” He crossed his arms, still avoiding the demon’s gaze. “Go on, you can laugh, you wily demon.”

Crowley put down his glass and dropped the teasing all together. “Aziraphale, I don’t care if you miracled the food! Still tastes good and you did it for _me_. That’s --” he thought for a minute, trying to come up with the right word -- “You made me dinner. That’s nice. And it’s not like I can cook a quiche either.”

The angel’s eyes widened, and he stared at Crowley for a few seconds, perplexed. “I really don’t know if you just insulted or complimented me. Did you really call me _nice_ , dear?” 

“Well,” Crowley scoffed, shrugging it off. “It’s not like _I’m_ nice. Never nice. I’m a demon. But I can still recognize nice in other people.” He looked up to see if the angel was buying it, and if he was out of the doghouse, then decided to go for the whole hail mary. 

“How about after we finish this, we walk into town so I can buy you a really good whiskey at the pub?” he continued with an eyebrow waggle. “My treat.”

The angel considered, then nodded sharply and helped himself to some quiche and another glass of wine.

“Inviting me out for a whiskey. Yes, absolutely. I can see how mean and awful you truly are. Eye opening, really.”

“Damn right,” Crowley said, with a wink. “And don’t you forget it.”

\--

The walk to the pub was refreshing in the cool evening air. It was only about a fifteen minute walk into town, where they headed straight for The White Horse. Warm golden light spilled out through the paned windows and a gentle murmur of conversation drifted out as they entered. They settled into a small table that miraculously became available, and Crowley quickly ordered two Tallisker whiskeys, neat. 

“Nice place,” Crowley said, looking around appreciatively. 

Aziraphale hummed his approval, eyes darting left and right. Everyone had looked at them as they arrived, and even if he knew it was the normal reaction in such a small village, he was feeling a little self-conscious. Unwillingly, his hand fluttered to his throat before he stopped it and almost slammed it back onto the table.

 _Stop overthinking and relax!_ He ordered himself.

“Yes, it is quite cozy. I dare say it will become one of our new haunts.”

Crowley took a sip when the drinks arrived, nodded appreciatively to the server, and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “So, tell me,” he said, eyes glittering. “Why aren’t you wearing your bow ties anymore? I see you reaching up to straighten it all the time.” 

The angel’s eyes widened in shock. He’d never thought Crowley would _notice_! The demon had made it plain time and again that he thought his bow ties quite ridiculous. Shouldn’t he feel relieved? They were, after all, in close association now. Openly, at that.

“I… Well, I thought it was high time for some change. We are living in the countryside now and bow ties -- they’re way too formal. I don’t want to attract too much attention. I’ll get used to it in no time, do not worry, dear…”

A complicated series of emotions flitted over Crowley’s face, too quickly to read. He hid the moment behind another deep sip of whiskey, then gave the angel a very private kind of smile. “Didn’t ask you to change, angel,” he said softly. “Don’t think you need to.” 

Crowley leaned back and looked around the room at the other patrons. Two older women at the bar with sensible haircuts and elaborately home-knit jumpers appeared to be looking their way and discussing them. He tried to ignore them. 

Aziraphale blinked. Pushing away the questions swirling in his mind, he took a sip of his own drink. Good stuff. The demon hadn’t lied when he’d said he would treat him to the best. He looked up and smiled fondly at the vision of his dearest friend frowning obnoxiously at the wall. What a dear.

“This is absolutely delicious, Crowley! I haven’t had such a good whiskey since… why, I think it was while Victoria was still queen. That little inn near the Thames? What was its name?”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, I remember. The Crown Inn, wasn’t it?” He leaned in, conspiratorially. “I seem to recall you got rather crocked that evening. Didn’t I carry you home?” 

The angel pouted. “Like I never did the same for you. I can certainly remember several instances _you_ should be embarrassed about.” His frown disappeared and he grinned widely, eyes twinkling. “You ran into the Duke of… what was it? Anyway, you knocked him down! I remember THAT! Had to escape and hide!”

Crowley laughed. “I seem to recall that I was the one doing the escaping, and you were mostly falling to the ground and being dragged away --”

He paused as a slight throat-clearing caught his attention. They both looked up to find one of the two women from the bar standing hesitantly beside their table. Her jumper, he noticed up close, had a small dog on the front and was even worse than he had thought.

“Uh, hello?” Crowley said, unwelcomingly.

Aziraphale sent him a pointed look and smiled benevolently at the newcomer.

“Hello, my dear lady. How can we help you?”

The woman smiled warmly at them. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” she said. “I’m Maude, and that’s Mary over there. We just wanted to say that we’re so pleased to hear another same sex couple has moved into the village! It’s been just Mary and me for the last few years!” 

Aziraphale’s brain, which had been ready to offer blessings or at least introductions, screeched to a halt. The angel gaped.

Crowley’s face lit up with a giant grin. This was exactly the kind of mischief he lived for. “Why thank you, Maude!” he said expansively. “Won’t you and Mary come join my partner and me?” 

Maude gestured and her partner Mary came over, looking shy. Her sweater, Crowley noted, had a Siamese cat on it. He nearly sprained something holding back a comment.

“Hello,” Mary said. “I’m so sorry for disturbing you. Maude just talks to everyone.” They exchanged a fond look and settled into the two unused chairs. 

This kind of display of affection usually warmed Aziraphale’s heart. It did, in some distant part of his mind. The other, main part was currently occupied to try to strangle Crowley with only a look.

“Why… hello, Mary,” he managed in a weak voice. “What a… a pleasure to meet you two, truly. Would you care for a drink? I am sure that my _partner_ ” and the word was dripping venom “would be _delighted_ to fetch something for you.”

Maude waved away the offer and indicated the pint glasses they were both already holding. “Ach, no,” she said. “So, we live in the flat up over the tea shop. You two are in the old cottage just down the road, right? Always thought it was just perfect for a couple. So romantic.” 

Crowley ignored Aziraphale’s pointed look of distress and smiled his most charming smile at the two women. “I’m Crowley, and he’s Aziraphale,” he said, gesturing. “And I swear, that’s the first thing I said to him, didn’t I honey? How romantic the cottage was?” 

Crowley turned to Aziraphale expectantly and had the nerve to blow him a kiss. 

The angel looked at him, then at the two humans, and suddenly brightened, using his best false smile. “Why, yes, my dear. I remember it perfectly! _Romantic_ was the first thing we both had in mind while searching for a house.”

“Not a house,” Crowley tutted affectionately. “Our _home_ , love.” 

_Love_? thought Aziraphale, flustered, his cheeks blushing slightly.

LOVE? yelled a very angry voice inside his head one second later. How _dare_ you?

Maude and Mary tittered. “You two are adorable,” said Maude. “Tell me, how long have you been together?” 

“It’s been…” Aziraphale thought quickly. Six thousand years? We’ve never _been_ together? Which was the right answer? “Six… years. But sometimes it seems like a _lot_ more,”’ he added in a grumble.

Crowley laid a hand on top of Aziraphale’s. “You’ll have to excuse my partner,” he said fondly. “He’s a bit of a curmudgeon. Perhaps we should get you home, dear?” 

Maude smiled. “I understand completely,” she said. “But perhaps we can have you over for tea sometime soon? We’d love to get to know you further.” 

Mary nodded in assent. 

“That would be lovely,” Crowley said emphatically. “Wouldn’t it, sweetheart?” 

Aziraphale looked at their hands. It felt nothing like it had only a few hours ago in the garden. He quietly took his back and folded it on his lap.

“Ah. Yes, of course. Lovely. Can’t wait, truly. You are right, Crowley, I may have overindulged, I am feeling the beginning of a headache. It was such a pleasure meeting you, my dears.”

With a last blinding smile, mixed with a little blessing (the two dears looked so in love) he got up and headed to the door, leaving his half full drink and _partner_ behind.

“Excuse me,” Crowley said to the two ladies, throwing a few notes on the table and pausing to suck down the last of the angel’s unfinished whiskey. “I’d better catch up with him.” 

\--

Crowley came out of the pub and found Aziraphale already partway down the lane. He jogged to catch up with him. 

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Crowley said good humoredly as he slotted into place at the angel’s side. 

Aziraphale looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Fun?”

“Yeah, you know,” Crowley said. “Funny? You know I love playing with folks who make assumptions.” 

“Oh,” snapped the angel, trying not to think about smiting. “Yes, hilarious, truly. So funny. I simply can’t wait to pretend every time we go out. What the… what were you _thinking_ exactly?” he asked, stopping to face his friend. “Did you even think at all, I wonder?”

Crowley blinked in surprise and stopped walking. “Oh, we’ll figure that out when we come to it,” he said. “And they seemed nice! Won’t be the end of the world if we have to be a little snuggly during tea at their place.” 

_Snuggly_? Screeched the voice in the angel’s head. Embarrassment, shame, and frustration overflowed in him and he started walking again.

“Oh yes, what an excellent idea!” he answered in a venomous voice. “Yes, I can absolutely _pretend_ to enjoy _snuggling_. You will just have to tell me what to call you, since sweetheart and LOVE are already your _pretend_ endearments.”

Crowley tutted. “Now, Angel --”

“And when the game becomes dull, I will be delighted to stage an extremely public break up!” Aziraphale yelled before speeding up and taking the lead. He did NOT want to witness Crowley’s reaction. If the demon smiled or laughed, he wasn’t sure he could bear to see it.

Crowley stuttered to a halt as Aziraphale stalked off without him. He shook his head, confused. Clearly, Aziraphale hadn’t enjoyed his little game, but this level of a snit seemed a bit out of proportion. Had he said something to offend the angel? He thought back but couldn’t land on any particular comment. 

It had never occurred to him that the angel would find it so distasteful to even _pretend_ to be in a relationship with him. That stung, he had to admit. He’d rather enjoyed play-acting the closeness he wished they had. Apparently, though, this concept was so repugnant to the angel that he was quite angry about it. 

With a sigh, Crowley skulked along behind him for the rest of the way home. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when Aziraphale flounced into the house with a muttered good night and immediately sequestered himself in his office. 

Bloody hell, Crowley thought, as he threw himself down on the couch. There must be a bottle around here somewhere. 


	3. Chapter 3

> _Crowley looked at him, his honeyed eyes full of affection as he took a bite of Aziraphale’s angel cake. “Oh, bless it, angel! It’s… it’s the best thing I ever tasted!”_
> 
>   
>  _Aziraphale preened, feeling the blush creeping up his cheeks. “Oh, I wouldn't go so far…” he murmured modestly. He would, though. He knew the dessert was perfection. Nothing less for his demon._
> 
> _  
> “I would,” retorted Crowley, smiling. “It’s just perfect, love.”_

With a start, Aziraphale sat up, a loud thump making him look down. Book on the floor. Oh, dear Lord, _a book on the floor!_

Like a mother snatching her child out of the roadway, he grasped at the old tome, clutching it against his chest and tried to come back to his senses.

Oh. Oh, _of course_ , it had been a dream! It was all too nice to be anything else!

And now that he recalled the last evening, he remembered he was quite angry at his demon.

\--

Crowley woke up with a smile on his face. He’d been dreaming about the tavern last night, but this time instead of it all being a silly game, it had been _real_. They’d been sitting there, canoodling and holding hands, drinking their whiskey and calling each other silly names. He squeezed his eyes closed against the morning light, trying in vain to hang onto the last vestiges of the dream’s pleasant glow, but it slipped away from him. 

He peeled himself from the wall he’d been clutching in his sleep, looked over at the unused bed and rumpled it so it would look like he’d spent a peaceful night under the covers, and then sharpened his senses to see what was happening in the cottage. 

He could hear Aziraphale banging around in the kitchen, and if he wasn’t incorrect, the sounds were less the friendly kind of banging and more the aggressive variety. Apparently, he was still in the doghouse. He shrugged, still nursing some wounded feelings himself, and got dressed for gardening. 

He most certainly wasn’t going to take it out on the angel, he thought, but he made no such promises about the rosebushes. 

\--

Crowley followed the sounds down to the kitchen and stopped for a moment in the doorway to observe the angel, who was hammering away at some part of the espresso machine like he had a grudge against it. 

“Morning, angel,” he drawled, stretching lazily in the door frame. “What’re you up to?” 

Aziraphale froze, then turned to face his friend with a large, waxy smile. “Oh, you know… I just wanted to bring you your morning coffee, _sweetheart_.”

And in case the smile hadn’t been false enough, his tone left no room for questions. It was obviously sarcasm.

Crowley blinked. “Well, uh, that’s a lovely thought, I suppose...” The acidic bent of the angel’s words were not lost on him. He looked around. “Do you actually _have_ any coffee?”

The angel’s smile tightened for a second, before returning in force. He had planned to hand Crowley a cup, but the infernal machine refused to work. And this was a shame, because half of his planned retribution was about being the best _fake_ boyfriend that ever existed.

“No, I am so sorry, but the coffee machine doesn’t seem to work today, _sweetie_. I guess you’ll have to go with the instant one we found in the cupboard.”

Crowley frowned and wandered over to the cupboard to look. He dug around for a moment and came up with one very ancient, dusty jar of Folger’s crystals that he plonked down on the counter in disgust. “Well ‘m not drinking _that_ ,” he said, looking at Aziraphale incredulously. “And what’s with all the pet names?”

He concentrated for a moment and then snapped and created a fresh latte for each of them. Aziraphale’s even had a perfect little heart drawn in the foam. He grinned sharply at him as he passed it over.

The angel’s eyes flashed brightly for a second, divine light slipping into the human realm, but he looked up from his mug and flashed a perfect, toothy, Gabriel-like smile to his friend. “Oh, this is just perfect, _darling_. Looks absolutely delicious.”

Then he turned and stomped away. They both knew he wouldn’t touch the beverage. Aziraphale had standards, and miracled food was not part of them.

“Still got your knickers in a twist, then, do you?” Crowley shouted after him, hands open at his sides. When no response followed, he picked up both lattes and headed outside. 

No point in wasting a perfectly good coffee.

\--

Aziraphale read for most of the day, then put his book down with a huff and entered the kitchen like a soldier on the battlefield. He had said he would learn to cook. Become a true chef. His wildest dreams had been full of providing delicious treats, all of Crowley’s favorites. He was so looking forward to his demon’s praise. But as much as he knew the serpent’s favorite, he was equally aware of the things he hated. And today was just the perfect time to put that information to good use.

With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a cookbook from the shelves. Obedient (and slightly terrified) the book opened itself at a certain page.

Aziraphale smiled darkly.

\--

Crowley made quick work of both the coffees, grunting in satisfaction as a familiar jitter took hold deep in his bones. He surveyed the garden mindlessly, thinking back on the interaction they’d just had in the kitchen. Aziraphale, ever the queen of passive-aggressive feints, was clearly still quite upset with him about last night and missing no opportunity to make this known. He decided to leave him alone for a few hours; that was usually enough to weather the worst of the storm. 

In the meantime, he decided, those roses had had their last fun at his expense. Yes, he knew the angel loved them, but at least the big one really had to go. Anyone who knew anything about roses could see that it was virus-ridden, straggly and woody, and spreading both disease and bad attitude to its neighboring bushes. 

He headed out to the shed, pulled on his longest, thickest gloves, and dug out the pitchfork. He was getting that monster out of the ground now if it killed him. 

\--

Aziraphale looked at the plates with a satisfied air. This was just _perfect_.

Some snarky part of his brain pointed out the fact that he’d been terrible at cooking something out of love but was obviously very gifted when it came to cooking for revenge. He swept the thought under a mental rug. He’d always been a bad angel after all, nothing new here.

Nodding with satisfaction, he took off his apron and headed to the door. Time to call Crowley for dinner. His hand stopped inches from the doorknob.

What was he doing? Petty revenge? For what had been, all things considered, one of Crowley’s usual pranks? So, the demon hadn’t thought about the impact of his words, whose fault was that exactly? His, or Aziraphale’s? Maybe he was reading too much into his actions. Maybe Crowley had only ever wanted to be friends. Best friends, nothing else.

He opened the door, ready to suggest an outing. They could still go to that cute little deli two villages away. He would just have to pretend he’d burned the meal again. Not like Crowley expected anything else, after all, the sweet --

He stopped dead in his tracks, jaw hanging, taking in the massacre. Roses everywhere, half shredded, petals scattered in the grass. The largest bush that had, yesterday, been the garden’s most stunning feature (in Aziraphale’s opinion) was cut and torn into little bits around a very satisfied looking demon.

“Oh, dear Lord, what… Crowley, what happened here?”

Crowley stood up from where he had been crouched inside a thick tangle of roots and put his hands on his hips triumphantly. “‘Ziraphale!” he said with a wide grin. “It thought it got the best of me, but I am victorious!” He took in the look on the angel’s face and raised a single eyebrow. “What?” 

This was not to be borne! So yes, Aziraphale had felt vengeful himself, but he would never take it out on an innocent bystander!!

“You killed Gerald because of COFFEE?” he yelled.

“What? No!” Crowley sputtered. “Who the heck is Gerald, anyways? This bush had a fungus. Literally just bursting with disease! It had to go. You’d know that if you knew anything at all about the world outside of a book, angel.” Crowley turned and surveyed the remaining bushes. “I might have to take out one or two of the others, too.” 

The angel looked at him in silence for a whole minute. He didn’t know if he should yell about the book comment, Gerald’s death, or the threat towards the others, lovely roses. 

Finally, straightening his back, he forced himself to smile. Smiling had been very difficult this day. Never had it felt like such a chore.

“You poor thing,” he murmured sweetly, “you certainly worked very hard. I have prepared something to help you get your energy back. Why don’t you come in? Dinner is served.”

Crowley frowned, trying to read the sudden change in tone, and finally stripped off his gloves and left them in the middle of the pile. He straightened out a kink in his back and walked past the angel, who was holding the door for him with a strange look in his eyes, and into the kitchen where he immediately recoiled. 

“Oh, bloody hell, what is that _smell_?” he moaned. He turned to the angel, disbelieving. “Angel, what did you do??”

Aziraphale beamed. “Liver, onions, and broccoli, _dearest_. One of the most fortifying meals on earth. You deserve it, after everything you’ve done today,” he added, reaching out to pat Crowley’s hand patronizingly.

Whatever limited well of patience the demon had been drawing from abruptly ran dry. He snatched his hand back and uncoiled all his tricky vertebrae until he was at his fullest and most imposing height. “All right,” he snapped, “what in the name of creation is _wrong_ with you today? I’ve had just about enough!”

Aziraphale gasped in outrage. “Me? What is wrong with ME? You’ve got to be joking! You… don’t you _know_ by now?”

Crowley laughed harshly. “Oh, so I’m supposed to read your bloody mind, am I? All I know is you’ve been winding me up since I got up with all of this passive aggressive bullshit and I’d just as soon you told me straight out what the problem is, _angel_.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. This was the last straw. Not only was Crowley spoiling every endearment they had not yet even started to use with each other, but now he was also ruining their usual ones!

“I’d have you know the problem didn’t arise this morning, Crowley. But I suppose if you don’t understand by now, that means I am the stupidest being on Earth!”

Crowley groaned. “I never said you were stupid, angel. What in the ever-living hell are you talking about?”

The angel stared at his friend for a few seconds, speechless. Did Crowley really not know? He’d tried to make him feel bad by using cute names all morning, to show how it could hurt to hear them twisted like that, but it hadn’t worked at all. Maybe he had been stupid after all. Maybe Crowley had never felt the same as he did. Or maybe he was just being obtuse. Crowley could be awfully stupid himself, sometimes.

“The pub, Crowley. I am talking about the damn _pub_!”

“Oh yes, I’m aware,” Crowley said, a tad sarcastically. “It’s been blindingly clear that you’ve been angry at me since we left the pub. Playing at a relationship with me pushed your buttons, eh?” 

“Yes!” yelled Aziraphale, “yes, _pretending_ to be married to you was not something I _enjoyed_ , you… imbecile!”

Crowley flinched and tried to stuff down how much that hurt before it could show on his face. He straightened up and schooled his features into passivity. “So that’s how it is, then, is it?” he said coldly. “I’m sorry to have offended your sensibilities, angel. Won’t happen again.” 

He took the plate full of liver and onions and dumped the entire thing, serving dish and all, in the bin, then stalked past the angel into the living room. He found the scotch bottle he’d been nursing yesterday and took an enormous sip, then threw himself down onto the settee. 

Aziraphale looked at the bin, then the door, eyes widening in surprise. Crowley never ran away from a fight. They never did this. Going to another room to brood was so…

Lips tightened, he followed the demon and stood in front of him, hands on his hips. “Don’t act like a child, Crowley! I was perfectly entitled to feel uncomfortable!”

Crowley sputtered. “Childish? Me? At least I’m not flouncing around calling you names all day and being insulted that I don’t somehow have access to every thought in your head.” He took another drink. “Never said I was all that mature, angel, but you’re setting a pretty low bar here.”

Aziraphale was so angry he didn’t even think before speaking. “Oh, _excuse me_ , mister bad faith! You were the one who started the name calling! Or did you forget about it already, _love_? Plus, you cut the roses, and you _knew_ I loved them! How mature was THAT?”

Crowley let out a mangled, frustrated groan. “The roses had a VIRUS, angel. Plus, to be perfectly honest, that bush was an asshole. Total bollocks. It needed to go, and it had absolutely nothing to do with you.” 

Aziraphale blinked. He was vaguely aware that, as an angel, anger shouldn’t feel so welcome. “So you are saying,” he asked in a very calm, way too controlled voice, “that you can revive a dead dove with a breath, but not cure a rose bush with a snap of your fingers?”

Crowley took another drink. “Might’ve done,” he muttered, “if the bush wasn’t such an utter bastard about everything.” He looked pointedly at the angel.

Aziraphale’s face took a color it hadn’t tried in six millennia. “So, you got RID OF IT?” he yelled.

Crowley took a breath. “Angel,” he said through gritted teeth, “what are we actually talking about? This isn’t about the rose bush and you know it.” 

The angel closed his eyes tiredly. “No, it is not,” he admitted. “It is obviously about --” he gestured, encompassing the living room and the rooms around it “--all this,” he finished lamely. 

Crowley sat back with a breath of relief. At least that had a ring of honesty to it. He looked around glumly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. He held up the bottle. “Want some?”

Sighing, Aziraphale sat down next to him, too tired to argue that it was too early or to snap for glasses. “Oh, what the Hell,” he grumbled, taking a sip.

They sat and drank in silence for several minutes, both of them feeling the fragility of this lull in the argument and not knowing what to say next. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “This has gotten a bit... heated, hasn’t it?” 

Aziraphale nodded, looking at his hands clasped on his knee. “Yes, it rather has. I am sorry, my dear. I never thought living together would be so…”

He searched for his words. _Heartbreaking_ was certainly not a smart choice, even if it was the most evidently correct word.

“Difficult?” Crowley offered.

The angel chuckled bitterly and nodded. Yes, that would do.

“Look, angel,” Crowley said, sounding tired. “I know you haven’t exactly been happy here with me. It’s been pretty obvious. We can talk about it.”

Aziraphale shot him a look. “Have you? Been happy, I mean? Please be honest, Crowley. I know you.”

“Me?” Crowley said, frowning. “Why is everything about me tonight? I don’t think you’ve answered a single question I’ve asked you this entire evening...”

The angel got up with an angry huff. “Of course it is my fault again. I thought we could talk it out like reasonable adults, but you are so…” he flailed his hands at Crowley “so YOU! So yes, I have been a tad unhappy, is that so abnormal? Were _you_ uncomfortable living with me, or do you like your ceiling so much you HAVE to end up snoring against it every night?”

Crowley coughed on the scotch he’d been swallowing and sprang up to his feet. “What -- you’ve been coming into my room? At night? To see what I’m doing?” His eyes narrowed and he decided to strike for blood. “That’s a little pervy, angel, even for your side.” 

Aziraphale blushed furiously. “I wasn’t -- I was merely checking on you! You never slept in your bed, I was worried, that’s all! I didn’t have any ulterior motives. That’s ridiculous!” He narrowed his eyes, the last sentence catching up with him. “And what do you mean about _my side_ , exactly?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, angel, you know what I meant --”

“This is ridiculous,” interrupted Aziraphale. “I thought you at least were happy, but we have obviously both been miserable since we moved here. This was a bad idea; we should never have done it.”

Crowley stared blankly for a long, miserable moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “Well if you’re so miserable here, angel,” he said, his voice a dare, “there’s nothing keeping you here! You’re free to go anytime!” 

Aziraphale huffed in annoyance. “I didn’t say I _wanted_ to go, but if that’s so important to you to be alone, I can certainly make things easier!”

“Oh sure,” Crowley snarled. “Saint Aziraphale the long-suffering patron saint of only doing things for the benefit of others and never saying what he really wants.” 

“Oh, but I certainly can say what I want!” answered his friend angrily. “I want NOT to see your face right now!”

“You want to go? Then go!” Crowley shouted. “I don’t care.” 

Aziraphale blanched, furious. “Oh, you don’t care. Very well, enjoy your rose cemetery!”

He raised his hand in a short motion and snapped his fingers, looking Crowley straight in the eyes, then vanished.

Crowley blinked. He was somewhat surprised the angel had actually done it. He circled the living room, inspecting his suddenly empty surroundings, and tried to feel satisfied on having won his point, but instead he simply felt like the walls were suddenly closing in on him. He glanced at the bottle on the table, at the mess in the kitchen, and at the huge pile of refuse he could just see in the garden through the back door. It was all waiting for him, and it was simply too much to bear. 

“Fuck it,” he said, materializing his car keys and his favorite leather jacket. “You don’t get to leave, _I’m_ leaving.” 

He strode out the door and into the Bentley and roared off down the road towards London. 

Enough. 

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Crowley and the Bentley roared into London just before midnight, when the streets were fortunately clear enough for Crowley to continue to push the speed limit even beyond his normal levels. He headed straight for Mayfair, used a quick miracle to move a few trash bins that blocked his usual parking place, and hopped out of the car. 

“Good girl,” he whispered, running a hand over the hood of the car before making his way inside. He was relieved to not run into any of the neighbors on his way up to the apartment. 

“Welcome home!” he shouted into the cavernous, nearly empty apartment as he slammed the door behind him. Within minutes he was face down in the bed, falling into an unruly sleep. 

He woke up in the morning to find himself plastered, as usual, against the wall -- but at least this time the wall wasn’t fucking chintz. The cold concrete felt comfortable and familiar underneath his cheek, and it took him a moment to remember everything that was currently wrong with his life. 

He peeled himself off the wall with a curse and went to the kitchen, trying not to think about Aziraphale. 

It wasn’t working. 

He did his best to ignore it while he dusted off the espresso machine and bullied it into producing a cup despite the complete lack of beans in the apartment. He took a drink and wrinkled his nose, dissatisfied, then spit it out in the sink. 

The apartment, he noticed, was even danker than usual in comparison to the cottage. The fucking cottage with all of its floral patterns and china teacups and gorgeous natural light streaming through dainty little windows. Why was he thinking about the cottage? He didn’t _like_ the cottage. But, looking around, he couldn’t say he felt comfortable here either. 

With a sigh, he dropped the cup in the sink and headed out. Time to get a real coffee somewhere. That’s what one did in London, after all. 

\-- 

Aziraphale appeared in his bookshop and aimed directly for the stairs leading to the loft upstairs. He calmly filled the kettle, prepared the teapot, patiently waited the required minutes, then filled his winged mug and settled downstairs at his desk. The tea got cold as the angel stared into nothingness, tight lipped.

Aziraphale was not good at anger. Never had been. He’d learned at the very beginning to squash this kind of awful, unangelic feeling. Sweeping emotions under a metaphorical rug had been his copying mechanism for millennia, and he never understood how easily feelings tended to just… erupt and overcome him when it came to Crowley.

As much as he hated to be angry, he hated more how easy it was to just release it onto someone, and how difficult to reel it back in afterwards. Why hadn’t he ever yelled at Gabriel and Sandalphon and why was it so easy to do so with Crowley, the last person he truly wanted to yell at?

But the demon had been so… infuriating! Pretending to be a couple! Using all those words as a prank! And not even understanding why it bothered Aziraphale.

 _Well… if he doesn’t feel that way, how could he understand?_ asked a little voice at the back of his mind.

But he was fairly certain Crowley felt the same. He’d observed his friend closely these last few weeks, very closely. He was almost sure he wasn’t the only one with romantic inclinations for his former adversary.

He grimaced at a sip of cold tea and got up. The sun was rising already, and he was finally starting to feel the anger recede. He felt tired, but already knew he wouldn’t sleep. He needed to walk and think about this whole ridiculous situation. They were free from Heaven and Hell, and still they had found a way to fight, for God’s sake!

He was starting to feel a little guilty already. Crowley certainly had been dreadful, especially with that poor rose bush, but Aziraphale had the nagging feeling that he’d escalated the situation and needed to apologize. It was the best way to put all this behind them. No way they could let it go on for years like the Holy Water debacle. He would not accept it, and he knew Crowley wouldn’t either.

He looked around with a sigh. His beloved bookshop wasn’t the same without someone to talk to. He couldn’t think here. He grabbed his overcoat and headed out, locking the door with a snap of his fingers.

\--

Crowley’s feet steered him automatically to the coffee shop that he and the angel frequented, directly en route between the bookshop and St. James’. He froze outside the shop window, almost unable to bring himself to enter. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, after all. It was theirs. A quick glance inside confirmed that the shop was mostly empty, and with a stern shake of his head he pushed the door open and entered. He was a demon. He wasn’t scared of any retail establishment. 

A few minutes later, he set off for the park with an extra-large, five-shot latte in hand and a couple of rolls (for the ducks), and found himself a bench two over from their usual where he could sit and think.

He gave up resisting and let his mind drift back over their argument yesterday. It had been ages since he’d seen Aziraphale get that angry, and he knew that fights like this one had the potential to create more of a rift than either of them wanted. He didn’t want a rift. Whatever else he was unsure about, he knew that much.

He had to admit, he probably wasn’t as entirely blameless as he’d initially assumed. Although he didn’t quite know why the angel reacted so badly to the prank at the pub, it had been obvious he’d been quite upset, and would it have killed him to just -- oh I don’t know -- apologize? Like right off the bat, right on the street outside, before it all had a chance to fester and morph into whatever it turned into? He could have done that. He’d been known to be smart like that from time to time, when it mattered. 

He tore up a handful of bread and threw it to the ducks, rather harder than he intended. They looked at him reproachfully, then nibbled away. 

And even if he’d missed that opportunity, Crowley thought, he hadn’t missed all the little pointed barbs the next day, the sarcastic “sweetheart” and “love.” He bristled anew a little at the thought of them, but each of them were also a missed opportunity to throw it on the table and clear the air, and instead he’d just absorbed the blows and let the irritation build up. Taken it out on the freaking rose bushes. 

He threw another handful of bread, less sharply this time. 

“That rosebush _was_ a dick, though,” Crowley muttered aloud, gaining himself some odd looks from a mother or two passing by with their children. 

It was. It really was. But he did know that the angel loved it, and perhaps he attacked the job of tearing it from the ground a little too intentionally. It’s possible, he thought guiltily, that he was well aware that the angel was going to have the celestial version of a heart attack when he discovered what he’d done. 

Fine, Crowley thought. So, he was kind of an asshole. Big news there. 

Guilt-ridden and miserable, he looked at the remaining roll, tore it roughly in half, and tossed each piece whole at the patiently waiting ducks. The squawked chidingly at him as he levered himself up off the bench and left the park. He was too busy judging himself to tolerate sitting here being judged inadequate by a pair of mallards, too. There must be somewhere else he could go. 

\--

Aziraphale entered their usual coffee shop with such a grim expression that the young barista decided to stay silent, instead of letting him know that his husband had just left five minutes earlier. He ordered Ceylon tea without milk and a plain muffin, and headed to their usual table, morosely taking a bite of his treat.

He was aware of the staff’s worried glances but decided he didn’t care. If he wanted to take only one pastry, it was his business, and he already knew he wouldn’t be able to do the chocolate cake justice today anyway. Miracled food tasted odd, but sad food just didn’t taste at all.

Crowley should be facing him, sipping a dark coffee (dark as his soul) that he would ‘inadvertently’ exchange with Aziraphale’s tea at some point, just as the angel decided to add milk and sugar to his beverage. Then the demon would declare that “Nah, it’s all right, I’ll drink it like that for once,” when Aziraphale would realize his ‘mistake’ and offer to buy him another.

Why was this dance so easy for them, when it seemed they couldn’t learn other, simpler steps? Was it too late to add to their repertoire? Aziraphale took another bite. He was fine with it, truly. As long as he had Crowley’s company, he would be fine with whatever his friend was ready to offer. It was the not knowing that was the worst. Two days ago, he would have sworn they were on the same page, heading to the same goal. Today, though, he was starting to wonder if he hadn’t been a little presumptuous.

If he had, he would have an awful lot to apologize for, because Crowley’s prank would have been, in this situation, nothing to get angry over.

_Oh, why are relationships so complicated?_

And why was he never able to just say what he thought?

He angrily finished his muffin and tea, left a pound next to his cup, and headed out, his feet turning towards St James Park of their own volition.

  
\--

Crowley wandered the city aimlessly after he left St. James’, unsure what to do with himself. He tried to lift his spirits -- he gave wrong directions to tourists, accidentally bumped into rude businessmen who were taking up more than their share of the sidewalk, and stomped his feet at a few pigeons who had become just a little bit too bold. None of it made him feel any better. 

He found himself trying to get inside the angel’s head. Why had Aziraphale been so bloody touchy? He supposed he had fouled up by making his feelings too apparent with that “let’s pretend to be an old married couple” ruse. They’d made it through the last few millennia by carefully never acknowledging the fact that of course Crowley was head over heels for the angel. Always had been. It had to have been blindingly obvious to the angel at various moments through the years. Aziraphale had been quite clear on the fact that any outright hint of this situation would not be tolerated, and until very recently, he had obeyed completely. 

And all it took, in the end, was one cottage with an empty bed, one angel looking decidedly fluffy and adorable, and one cozy pub where he’d had a little too much whiskey a little too quickly for him to decide it would be a fun _game_ to pretend he could have the one thing he knew he couldn’t. A few of the endearments he’d always wanted to say slipped a little too easily off his tongue, the caress of a hand laid on top of a hand -- and of course Aziraphale had been furious. 

He’d broken an unspoken agreement thousands of years in the making and, in his playacting, made his true feelings quite plain. 

Stupid, stupid demon. He’d always known an angel would never, ever love someone like him. 

He finally stopped, realizing he hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to where he was. He looked around and was surprised to find himself at the bandstand. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. Exactly where he wanted to be on a day like today, when everything with Aziraphale seemed to be falling apart. Right at the scene of their worst spat ever, at the biggest heartache either of them had ever inflicted on the other. He wandered up inside the structure warily, as if the memories entombed in there might jump out and bite him. Nothing did, but he felt the emotions clawing at him in a visceral way. 

_There isn’t an ‘our side’, Crowley,_ the angel had said. _Not anymore. It’s over._

It hadn’t been the end, but it had felt like it at the time. Was this where they were now, again? Had Aziraphale finally had enough? 

Crowley suddenly had a ravenous need for obscene amounts of alcohol. And possibly some nibbles to soak it up. He turned his back on the bandstand and headed for the one place he knew he wouldn’t be bothered by anyone. 

The Ritz. The lovely, soothing Ritz, where the waiters did not try to be your best friend and no one interrupted you and the patrons were discreetly disinterested in the sight of a demon drinking his way through a magnum of champagne while dining alone. 

\-- 

The angel stopped at the entry to St James’ Park, his throat tightening at the familiar landscape. He couldn’t bear the thought of sitting on their usual bench, all alone. Taking a fortifying breath, he straightened his back and set his jaw. He needed to walk, and to rehearse whatever speech would set things right again. He had never had to prepare a speech for Crowley before, never had such a feeling of walking on eggshells with him in the past, but he’d had plenty of practice with his yearly reviews with Gabriel. 

He needed to get this one _right_.

Where to start? Apologizing for dinner, certainly. Better start with that. Explaining his reaction in the pub was trickier, but after a good while of musing, he decided that needed to be done too. It wouldn’t be easy to explain what those false endearments had meant to him, not when he was starting to realize Crowley might only view him as a friend. He was dreading it; he knew he would feel so _ashamed_.

But shame was nothing, the greatest danger was Crowley’s reaction if his feelings were unrequited. Aziraphale imagined every possible reaction, feeling his heart clench at the worst ones. Nevertheless, in the end, he knew that Crowley wouldn’t cut ties, wouldn’t recoil in disgust and fear and go away, whatever his feelings on the matter. 

They had been through too much together, had forged ties much too strong to let something like a little misguided romance destroy everything. Aziraphale may not be sure of a lot of things, but there were a few constants in his mind and his heart. Things he knew were and always would be. His faith in God was one, and his faith in Her love. Crowley’s love was another, whatever its form. 

And if its preferred form was strictly friendship, so be it. It was the most important thing between them, after all, the one thing he could never renounce. But he needed to know, or this kind of incident would certainly happen again and they would both be miserable for no reason. Better to get things out in the open once and for all and risk the chance of suffering for a while. 

In the end, whatever happened and whoever suffered, things would get back to what they always had been. The two of them together, on their own side, against everything and everyone else.

Good. he had a plan, now. Next step was to follow through with it. He frowned as he realized he had been walking without paying attention for some time. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings, then pursued his lips in distaste.

The bandstand. How entirely appropriate.

“Oh, bother,” he murmured, turning on his heels. He had promised to never again push his friend away and give Crowley reason to doubt his commitment -- and yet here they were. And this time he didn’t have the slightest excuse. Refusing to leave Earth because he needed to stay and try to save it was one thing, but today there was no impending Armageddon to thwart, only a few words offered as a joke and a _rosebush_. Great excuse to start a fight with the only person that he could consider family.

He didn’t need a reminder of their worst moments, not as he was starting to gather enough courage to talk to Crowley and explain himself. No, he needed _good_ memories. And with that thought, he knew exactly where he needed to be.

Decidedly, he aimed for the Ritz.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Crowley slouched at his usual table at the Ritz, after having assured the maître d’ several times that no, it was just him and he wasn’t expecting his ‘partner’ to join him today. He ordered an appetizer, just to appear like he had any intention of eating, and a large bottle of burgundy that he began working his way through. The sooner he was drunk, the better. 

To amuse himself, he passed the time by observing the other patrons around him. There were several business-types, obviously having a quiet meeting in a refined location. He didn’t mind these, although he did cast out his demonic wiles to see if any of them were up to anything nefarious -- arms deals, gambling, international espionage. No such luck, all boring mergers and acquisitions. 

Worse were the couples. The Ritz was irresistible to happy couples -- he counted at least four pairs, canoodling in corners, lovingly holding hands across the table, or even, in one instance, playing footsie in a way that was most unbecoming in a restaurant of this caliber. Crowley scowled at each of them in turn, then went back to the first one and started the scowling all over again. 

Do not think about Aziraphale, he told himself firmly. You don’t need him to have a good time. 

It didn’t work. 

\--

The angel arrived at the familiar doors and smiled to the maître d’, who seemed a little bewildered at his appearance for half a second, then greeted him as usual.

Even with his perfect composure, Aziraphale could feel the tension building up in the man. Poor Roger must have had a bad day.

“Hello, my dear, I would like a table for one today, if that is possible.”

Roger didn’t react to the endearment. He was a proper, competent old man who would accept such familiarity from exactly _one_ person, and that person was presently standing in front of him.

“Certainly, Mr. Fell. Let me escort you to your table, sir.”

Aziraphale followed the man to a little table in a quiet corner, and sat with an inward sigh. He was feeling both relieved and disappointed not to be placed at their usual. Probably for the best, though. Too many memories there, it would be even more lonely.

He bravely ordered a crème brûlée and tea, and Roger nodded sharply, before gliding away in that magical fashion only known to every maître d’ around the world.

Crème brûlée was always comforting, thought Aziraphale, unfolding his napkin. He needed comfort right now.

\--

Crowley poured himself a second glass of the burgundy -- honestly, he’d be on his third by now but the wineglass provided were absurdly large -- and started his third glaring pass of the room. 

Absurd businesspeople who were not arms dealers -- death glare delivered. Check.

Ridiculous couple obviously wearing their Sunday best and touching fingertips on the table as if they just couldn’t wait to be alone -- scorching sneer in place. Check. 

Older man who was obviously wooing a much-to-young-for-him woman who was probably only after his money -- unimpressed glower conveyed. 

Fluffy, overdressed angel lookalike who was seated alone, half turned away from him, hunched over in the corner and completely absorbed in his absurdly small dessert -- 

WAIT.

What?  
  
Crowley’s brain screeched to a halt, complete with record scratch noise and ensuing static. The hairs on his arms stood up and he felt a full body flush break over him. 

That wasn’t an angelic look-alike. He knew that jacket. He knew that unruly mop of hair. And he knew that slightly miserable hunch when the angel was not happy. 

Crowley acted entirely on instinct. This was no time for overthinking and neuroses. His angel was here, and he was bloody unhappy. He shifted slightly in his seat and cleared his throat meaningfully, in a way he knew would carry the short distance between them. 

Aziraphale gasped and turned in his chair, making shocked eye contact with Crowley. 

Crowley drank in the sight of him, just for a moment, all radiant in his dismay and surprise, those blue eyes more vivid than anything else in the room. And then, summoning all the suaveness at his disposal, he crooked up the side of his mouth in a smile and slowly raised his wine glass to Aziraphale in a gesture of greeting. 

\--

Aziraphale loved crème brûlée so much he almost drowned once while eating one. Crowley liked to say that nothing could tear him away from one once he’d dug into it.

But that particular harrumph could only had been made by one particular throat, and the poor dessert found itself completely forgotten in a heartbeat. Aziraphale’s head shot up and to the side so fast any human would have broken a vertebra.

There was Crowley, sitting at their table, all alone (Thank God) and with a bottle of wine that seemed more than half empty already.

For a second, the angel wondered if his friend had used his power to stop time again. But no, humans kept talking and carrying plates around them. Time had only stopped for the two of them, in some way. He was dimly aware of the ridiculous sight he must offer, mouth agape, hands still over the tablecloth.

What should he do? Get up and talk? Get up and exit? Did Crowley want to be left alone? 

Then the demon raised his glass, and even with the sunglasses Aziraphale knew there was only fondness in his eyes.

He bit his lip, folded his napkin, and got up, not even sparing a glance to his half-eaten dessert. It only took a few seconds to cross the room, but it seemed much longer, and when he finally stopped in front of Crowley, he knew he was beaming from ear to ear and couldn’t care less.

\--

“ ‘lo Aziraphale,” Crowley said with the same half smile. He pushed out the opposite chair with his foot. “Care to join me?” 

The angel’s gaze softened. “Always, my dear,” he answered, taking the offered seat.

Crowley poured him a glass of wine and passed it over, trying to keep his hands from betraying any nervousness. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here, angel.” 

Aziraphale took a gulp of liquid courage. Then another, just to be sure. He nervously touching his bowtie, and remembering he wasn’t wearing one.

“Well, I was thinking. About…” he gestured in a flutter of hands. “You know,” he finally finished lamely. This was not the perfectly rehearsed speech he’d practiced, and he frowned angrily. “Oh, bother, I am absolutely useless at this. I wanted to apologize.”

Crowley leaned forward and spoke impulsively. “Me too. I’m sorry about the roses. And for insinuating that I just get rid of anything that annoys me. You know I didn’t mean that about you.” 

Aziraphale imitated the motion eagerly. “Of course I know! And I am so sorry I used it to accuse you. I know you wouldn’t, Crowley. I am also sorry I punished you by trying to feed you broccoli. That was uncalled for. Way worse than the roses,” he added, looking down in shame.

It _had_ been a bad blow.

Crowley took a long, deep breath and felt some of the tension leaving his body. Honestly, the roses and the broccoli were only the surface of this and they both knew it. He decided to try to make a start at the real issue. 

“And, well --” he stopped and drained his glass. “I’m sorry I overstepped your boundaries. Pretending to be married in the pub. I didn’t realize how distasteful the idea would be to you, even in pretend. It’s different for me. Didn’t mean to upset you.” 

He paused and tried not to hyperventilate. There was a beat or two of silence.

Aziraphale’s hands were trying very hard to convey way too many things at a time. “It’s not what you think! Of course it isn’t distasteful! It was a very good joke, really, it was, but I…” he blinked, rewound the conversation, and frowned. “What do you mean, different?”

Crowley blinked slowly and looked over the top of his glasses. “Ngk…” he said. “It’s just… the idea’s kind of nice to me, pretending. I pretend at lots of things I can’t have.” His heart pounded and he tried desperately to stuff the words back into his throat where they belonged. 

Aziraphale took in his dear demon’s posture and tried to analyze his tone of voice in a few seconds. He knew he was not good at reading people. But this wasn’t just anyone, it was Crowley, and he prided himself on his expertise over the demon’s body language.

Uncertainty, fear, or sadness? Who cared, honestly, the three of them meant the same, right? Relief overflowed the angel. He had been right after all; they _were_ feeling the same. Except apparently, for some silly reason, his demon seemed to think Aziraphale didn’t want the same things that he did.

Well, maybe pushing him away time and again had something to do with it.

“Crowley,” he said, softly. “You already have it, you silly demon. I don’t want to pretend.”

Crowley felt incredibly stupid. “I already have _what_ , angel?” he said plaintively. _Don’t toy with me, angel,_ he thought. _Please._

“ _Me_! I am talking about me! I don’t want you to pretend to be my loving husband, not if I could have it for real!” Aziraphale suddenly composed himself and added in a hurry “If you want to, of course. You don’t have to. We don’t have to change anything if you don’t feel like it-”

 _Shut up, Principality_ , he ordered himself.

“Oh shaddup, Principality,” Crowley said, his eyes suddenly blurry with tears. “Course I want you. When have I ever wanted anything else?” 

He reached out and laid his hand over Aziraphale’s on the tablecloth, marveling at the softness of it, and tried to ignore the fact that they were now grinning absurdly and mooning over each other in the exact same way all the patrons he had been scowling at earlier.

He didn’t care. This was Aziraphale, and by some miracle of miracles, Aziraphale wanted to be his. 

The angel stared at his hand in disbelief. This felt _nothing_ like it had in the pub, and it was _perfect_. Some part of his brain was yelling at him to _say something for the love of God_ , but he was quite incapacitated by the heavy lump in his throat.

Thankfully, he still had control over his hand, and tried to respond to Crowley’s declaration by pressing it softly. It didn’t exactly work, and he ended up crushing the poor demon’s fingers like he was holding onto it for dear life, which, in a sense, he was.

Crowley smiled and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should get out of here?”

Aziraphale nodded mutely. 

Crowley raised his free hand, continuing to submit to the bone-crushing grip like it was the greatest sensation he’d ever felt in his life. (It was.) 

“Check please?” he called. 

\--

They continued to clutch hands for the whole walk back to the bookshop, where they barely made it through the door before somehow one of them leaned in -- both would later claim the other started it -- and initiated a tentative at first, then much more confident, kiss. 

It was a matter of some debate whose brain cells stopped firing first, and whose neurons lasted the longest in the state of complete and utter sensory overflow this created. Happily, arguing about such matters simply led to more kissing. It was a problem that tended to work itself out. 

Much later, curled against Crowley’s side on the couch of the bookshop’s backroom, wine glass in hand, Aziraphale straightened brusquely as a thought crossed his alcohol-addled brain. Crowley, who was leaning against him, let out a cry of protest as he lost his balance.

“Oh. Forgive me, dearest, I’ll be back in two shakes.”

He shoved his glass into the befuddled demon’s hand and hurried out of the room and up the stairs, aiming for the bedroom. Opening a drawer, he selected his favorite tartan bow tie with a blinding smile.

Yes. Now, everything was just _perfect_ , he thought as he finished tying it.

“Oh, thank God,” Crowley said when Aziraphale came back down the stairs with his bowtie firmly in place. “I don’t know why you ever stopped wearing that. It’s nice -- I mean, it’s not that bad.” 

The angel’s face lit up. He had been a little anxious at Crowley’s reaction. “Thank you, my dear. I have to admit, I was feeling quite naked without it.”

With a contented sigh, he sat back and retrieved his glass.

Crowley allowed himself a moment to bask. He and Aziraphale had made up, and what’s more, they had taken a considerable step forward. He took a sip of his wine and tried his best to be suave as he draped an arm around the angel’s shoulders. 

“Could get used to this,” he said. “Hope to get a chance to.”

Aziraphale wriggled a little to settle comfortably against his... friend? Boyfriend? What kind of word were they supposed to use now? Then he frowned and turned to look at him.

“Crowley,” he said urgently. “I know I haven’t been very constant about such matters before, but I do not intend to back out now, I assure you. You don’t need to hope for “a chance.” I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. You are quite stuck with me. You had better get used to it.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said intelligently, his face flushing. He cleared his throat and smacked himself in the forehead, just for good measure. “I mean -- so’m I, angel. This is -- well.” Why wouldn’t his tongue work? “Being stuck with you sounds good. Really good. To me.” 

Strangely, the angel took this declaration with the same dreamy expression he usually reserved for long, romantic arias in his favorite operas.

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you to say…”

He cut his sentence short, bit his lip, and fiddled with his bowtie, obviously stopping himself from something. _Oh, bother_ , he thought, draining his glass in one go, then turning to face Crowley fully.

“That is very sweet, my love.” His face burned as he added softly. “Is it all right to call you that?”

Crowley blinked. “Err -- yes,” he stammered out. “It’s -- it’s perfect, actually.” He cleared his throat and tried to ignore how amazing those words had felt, landing. _My love_. Was this really happening? 

“Oh, good!” exclaimed the angel with a delighted wiggle. “By the way, what were you doing at the Ritz, dearest? Not that I am not grateful to find you here, but I thought you were back at the cottage… I mean, home,” he corrected himself.

“Oh, well...” Crowley said. He took a swig of wine to buy himself a little time to decide what to say. “I didn’t really want to be there without you.”

Aziraphale looked at his demon fondly. Poor Crowley, who loved life in the countryside so much but had left it all behind because he felt miserable without his company. He promised himself there and then to never disappear in the middle of an argument again. Those days were over.

“You must miss it very much. We can get back tomorrow morning if you want. Or even tonight if you’d rather drive.”

“No!” Crowley shouted. “No, no. That’s not -- I mean that’s fine. I mean let’s stay here tonight. In London.” He sipped his wine and tried to look nonchalant. 

Aziraphale blinked. Something was off, he could feel it. “Dearest?” he asked, “Is anything the matter?”

Crowley flopped back into the couch. “I have to tell you something, angel.” 

The angel steeled himself and clasped his hands on his knees, preparing to hear the worst. “Go on, then. I promise I will not get mad.”

“You remember when I said I thought we should look into making a change? Into moving?” Crowley said, all in a rush. 

Aziraphale looked at his hands. Oh, this was not leading anywhere good.

“Ah, yes?” he answered.

“I didn’t mean moving away,” Crowley said miserably. “I meant moving in _here_. Like together. But you jumped onto moving to the country and you just sounded so excited about it...” 

Aziraphale was gaping and raised a hand to interrupt. “Wh… wait. What? I never said I wanted to live in the _countryside_! You did!”

“No,” Crowley protested, “ _I_ said I thought we should talk about moving, and _you_ were all excited about getting out of London!”

“Crowley, my dear, I assure you that leaving London is _not_ something that excites me!” declared Aziraphale. “I love London! I love my bookshop! Why would I want to leave it?”

“Wait,” Crowley said. “So, you didn’t want to move to the country either?” 

“No, I only thought you wanted a garden! Are you telling me that we both decided to move to please the other?”

Crowley grimaced. “We are bloody idiots.” He poured them both more wine. “Absolute morons. So, you love London, I love London, and we moved to the country for absolutely no reason and kept living platonically when all we really wanted was to get in each other’s pants?” 

Aziraphale choked on his wine. “In… what? I beg your pardon?”

Crowley laughed and leaned in and laid a chaste kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’m sorry angel, I just meant that we were both pining away for each other and instead we decided to bury our feelings under... what? Rose bushes and broccoli? A matching set of chairs by the fireplace? A half rate pub at best?” He grinned. “You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.” 

Aziraphale blushed at the kiss and smiled sweetly. “It wasn’t all that bad. There were good moments too. I think we would have gotten there one way or another.”

“Well at least we’re there now,” Crowley said. “So, your place or mine?”

Time to be honest and stop thinking about what Crowley wanted the answer to be, thought Aziraphale. “I rather like my bookshop, but it isn’t that important, as long as I can come here to work during opening hours. What would _you_ prefer?”

“Oh, definitely the bookstore, angel,” Crowley said. “I don’t even really like my place all that much. I mean, maybe we can punch out the upstairs a bit, bend the laws of physics a little to add a conservatory and some wardrobe space... but I’d be perfectly happy here with you.” 

The angel beamed. “Of course, we can make as many changes as you want. It is your home too now. As long as you don’t disturb my books, of course. I wouldn’t want customers to find what they are looking for.”

“No, we could never have that,” Crowley agreed seriously. Honestly, it wasn’t worth the stress. “So, it’s settled, then. We’ll make some space upstairs and we will give this living together thing another try?” 

“I have the feeling this time will be much better, dearest. We can start getting your plants tomorrow! And there are some things I have to retrieve in the cottage also…”

Aziraphale stopped. The cottage. He’d almost forgotten.

Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes. “The cottage. What will we do with it? Sell it? Keep it? Burn it? It’s not such a bad place, really...”

“Maybe we could keep it? I think it would be rather lovely to get back there for a romantic weekend once in a while,” murmured the angel with a blush. He was still thinking of the “pants” sentence. Buying a second bed for the bookshop was certainly not on his to do list.

Crowley grinned, a glint in his eye. “We do have some breaking-in to do there. All those rooms, totally unchristened.” He nodded. “We should definitely go back.” 

The angel frowned. “Crowley. Christening is done with holy water. We are certainly not doing that!”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said, “but that’s for babies. I meant like with a ship. You know, smack it with champagne and get naked and all that.” 

The angel wondered how much of his demon’s teasing was pure bravado. Crowley certainly didn’t expect him to take him seriously.

“Oh, I don’t know, love. I don’t think we should wait for a trip to the cottage,” he said with an innocent grin. “Can’t we christen the bookshop instead?”

He snapped his fingers, conjuring a bottle of champagne from his shelf, and raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Are you calling my bluff angel?” Crowley said, his voice low. “Cuz calling a demon’s bluff is a dangerous undertaking.” 

“Well good, then. Because danger definitely excites me,” teased Aziraphale. “Grab two flutes in the cupboard, please. We will not drink from the bottle like animals.”

Crowley watched, entranced, as his angel, the glorious bastard, tucked the champagne bottle under his arm, gave him what could only be called a smoldering, come-hither look, and then primly walked up the stairs without even once looking back. 

His brain sputtered for just a second -- is this real? Is Aziraphale really waiting for me in his bedroom? -- before booting back up. Hell yeah, it was real. And he wasn’t going to miss out on a second of it. 

He grabbed two of the nicest champagne flutes and followed his angel up the stairs. 

Time to start over.


End file.
